Aftermath
by Mad Server
Summary: Sam and Dean get an unpleasant surprise the morning after a hunt. Basically just another excuse for me to make Sam feel Dean's forehead.


Title: Aftermath  
Author: Mad Server  
Rating: M  
Characters: Dean, Sam  
Word Count: 1100  
Summary: Sam and Dean get an unpleasant surprise the morning after a hunt.  
A/N: This is for the lovely Jensenite42, whose donation of a fluffy bunny enabled me to once again make Sam feel Dean's forehead. Hope you like it, dude. Many, many thanks to my inimitable beta, i-speak-tongue.  
Disclaimer: I don't own these guys, I swear.

* * *

The alarm clock blares out CCR and Dean skids into consciousness, heart pounding like all his grade school teachers together have just caught him jacking off under his desk. Breathes through sick disorientation, then fully registers the Creedence and places his surroundings, Connecticut motel room in the dark. He lies still despite the fact that the music is obscenely loud even for him at this hour, buffeted but refreshed by the sound, reassured: no day that starts off with Creedence is going to be a _total _ass-fuck.

There's a loud groan from the other bed and then Sam swats the alarm clock, swears softly and turns on the lamp. Sits up and swings his legs down, his eyes slitted against the light. His eyes connect with Dean's but nobody speaks; it's too early, words are nauseating.

Sam gets up and pads into the bathroom, and Dean rolls away from the light.

* * *

'Bathroom's yours.'

Dean opens his eyes, squints up at Sam. Sam's fully dressed, hair still wet, mouth a hard little line. There's a pit in Dean's stomach.

'I'm going for coffee. Get the fuck up.'

'Hey!'

The door smacks shut behind Sam, and now it's Dean's turn to groan, anger bunching hot at the back of his neck. He starts to sit up, but it feels like there's a weight across his chest, and his limbs are sleepy. He decides to give himself five more minutes. Slides his eyes shut, then whips them back open when he hears his name, and suddenly Sam is standing over him, and his hair's dry, and Dean can smell coffee.

Sam's looking at him hard, pissed off but also something else, a hint of concern.

'Speedy McSpeed,' says Dean. He motions for the coffee, but when Sam passes it to him Dean fumbles, drops it on the bed where it drenches the covers and his leg underneath. Dean paws at the scalding wet covers, which are absurdly heavy. Finally manages to get them off his skin and lies panting on his bed, T-shirt and boxer briefs mercifully dry.

'What the _fuck_, Sam,' he gasps.

'I thought you had it.'

'I fucking didn't!'

Sam doesn't answer, just stares at him, face cold and clinical. Dean feels suddenly naked, decides it's time to hit the shower. Tries to push himself up but his muscles start shaking, arms and abs crapping out so he has to rest against the headboard halfway up, and suddenly he's scared shitless because what the hell is _that _about?

'You sick or something?' asks Sam, some of the pissiness evaporating.

'Fuck should I know?'

Dean forces himself the rest of the way up, then sits back against the headboard and passes shaky hands over his biceps, avoids Sam's gaze while he tries to get his breath back. Sam steps in closer, drops a hand onto his forehead, and Dean actually holds still for him, because something is going the fuck _on_ and Dean needs to know what.

'Feel OK?'

'Fine,' snaps Dean. 'Except for the part where I can't fuckin' _move_.'

'You think maybe the warlock did something before he kicked it?'

'Shit, _yeah_,' says Dean, and suddenly his panic's ebbing. Not cancer, not a stroke, just a good old-fashioned spell. Absurd to worry about shit like that when he's only got two months left anyway, but he can't stop himself thinking maybe he's going to get off the hook, and how dumb would _that_ be, to get the contract voided and die of cancer five minutes later.

'Maybe he slipped you a hex bag,' says Sam. He puts down his coffee and starts digging through Dean's duffel, all business. 'What'd you wear yesterday?'

'You didn't notice?' says Dean, mock affronted. 'And here I was tryin' to look so nice for you.'

'_Dean_.'

'The other jeans,' Dean sighs, rubbing something crusty out of the corner of his eye, appalled at the effort it takes. 'And the green shirt.'

Sam searches all the pockets, comes up empty. Flips the green button-down inside out and there's a little bulge along the seam. Sam slits it open with his pocket knife and sure enough, bones and debris drop onto the carpet.

'How the fuck did he swing _that?_' Dean knows he was on the ball yesterday, paying attention, so more than being embarrassed he's impressed that this guy was able to work this on him: 'It takes _time_ to sew shit into a person's shirt.'

'And since when do hexes keep on working after the caster's death?' Sam is scooping up the hex bag innards, dumping them into an ashtray. 'Maybe he's not our guy. For this.'

'No, this feels like him,' says Dean, wrapping his arms around his torso. 'Asshole of the Decade said something, just before he died. Too quiet to make out. Maybe it was an incantation, to trigger the hex.'

'You think this is the whole deal?' asks Sam, standing up and gesturing at Dean with the ashtray. ''Cause aren't hexes usually a bit more extreme than this? And why'd it take so long to kick in?'

'Maybe he botched the last couple words,' says Dean. 'Maybe it's weaker 'cause he's dead. Who knows. Who cares? Just torch the thing and let's hit the road.'

Sam shrugs. Squeezes lighter fluid onto the pile in the ashtray and strikes a match. Holds it poised above the ashtray, and raises his eyebrows at Dean.

'I can't believe you didn't notice him sewing a hex bag into your clothes.'

Dean shivers, his hand balling into a loose fist. 'I can't believe how much I'm gonna kick your _ass_ when I can move again.'

A beat, and then Sam gives. Sighs out a laugh, and lights it up. Dean watches the fire and feels energy flooding back into him, fast and sweet. Gets up too quickly, blinks past a head rush and then he's smacking Sam upside the head, flames still licking in the ashtray. Sam yells truce, babysitting the fire.

'Little shit,' Dean mutters, then turns toward the bathroom.

'Hey,' says Sam, his smile gone, eyes searching out Dean's. 'He had it coming.'

Dean flashes on the victims' heads in the warlock's freezer, the rows and rows of voodoo dolls in his kitchen cupboard.

'Hell yeah,' he says. Hits the shower, and inside of twenty minutes the boys' first murder is safely in the rearview mirror.

* * *

end


End file.
